One flashing glance showed Duane the open once more, a little valley below with a wide, shallow, rocky stream, a clump of cottonwoods beyond, a somber group of men facing him, and two dark, limp, strangely grotesque figures hanging from branches.
The sight was common enough in southwest Texas, but Duane had never before found himself so unpleasantly close.
A hoarse voice pealed out: "By hell! there's another one!" "Stranger, ride down an' account fer yourself!" yelled another.
"Hands up!" "Thet's right, Jack; don't take no chances.

Plug him!" These remarks were so swiftly uttered as almost to be continuous.

Duane was wheeling his horse when a rifle cracked.

The bullet struck his left forearm and he thought broke it, for he dropped the rein.

The frightened horse leaped.